


Reminders

by tartanfics



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-19 14:55:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartanfics/pseuds/tartanfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock keeps using John's cane for his experiments, and John wants to know why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reminders

On a Tuesday morning, John Watson finds his cane being used as a roasting spit. By now he's used to finding unpleasant things in the kitchen--head in the fridge, jars of eyeballs, a sink full of decaying olives. On the whole, he isn't very surprised by the sight. It's just that he hasn't thought much about the cane for a while.

There is a stack of books on either side of the stove, and the cane is balanced between them. Properly, of course, there ought to be a bonfire underneath, but properly this scene should be taking place on a beach somewhere, with sticks and waves crashing on the shore, not with books and an aluminum cane. Hanging from the cane, over the gas, is an enormous dead rat.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock Holmes appears in the doorway, holding a creased sheet of yellow origami paper. He's been folding paper balloons and frogs all morning; John has elected not to ask why.

"The rat?"

"Yes?"

"Care to explain?"

"Rather not."

Sherlock turns away, and John leans against the counter and contemplates his cane. He hasn't used it since he forgot it in their mad dash after the taxi. Once or twice, he has reached out and closed his hand around the air, which feels solid for a moment before his hand collapses into itself. But the cane itself has been buried under Sherlock's detritus, and John hasn't seen it since he set it aside weeks ago. He's afraid to disturb the rat (which is oozing ominously, and how are they going to make any lunch?), so he doesn't reach out to touch the cane, but he contemplates it.

"It was a psychosomatic limp. Which I cured."

John turns sharply. He hadn't expected Sherlock to be standing in the doorway, still. The yellow origami paper is now folded into a flower. "Can you cure a psychosomatic limp? It doesn't really exist."

Sherlock's mouth twitches. "You had a psychosomatic limp, you no longer have a psychosomatic limp, therefore I cured it."

"I ought to get some of the credit."

John almost doesn't see the barely-there shake of Sherlock's head. It occurs to him, slowly, that Sherlock believes he cured the limp because he consciously set out to cure the limp. When he took them on that fruitless run for the taxi, he wasn't just "proving a point"—he was trying to help. The feeling this realization provokes is an odd mixture of touched and manipulated. John sometimes wonders if he's actually responsible for any of the circumstances of his own life, since Sherlock came into it.

"I don't share credit," Sherlock says. Which is totally untrue, actually, but John is too busy rethinking Sherlock to call him on it.

-

A week and a half later, on a Saturday night, John comes home from a date to find his cane stuck in a hole in the wall, with one of Sherlock's shirts hanging off it. Sherlock himself is sitting on the sofa, picking at his violin. "You're ten minutes early," Sherlock says.

"How d'you figure ten minutes?"

"You went to Carlotti's."

"And?"

"And you always order the tortellini alfredo--boring, by the way--which takes fifteen minutes to make and fifteen to eat, because you eat slow. But you can't have been at the restaurant that long."

"She spilled her glass of water in my plate."

"Provoked?"

John scowls. "Of course not. Some people don't make a habit of insulting their dates."

Sherlock ignores this point, and goes back to plucking at the violin. John looks back at the cane in the wall, and decides not to ask.

-

It's not just that he keeps finding the cane in prominent positions around the flat. There have been other futile chases like that first one. John has no trouble running, now, though Sherlock always outruns him and never ends quite so out of breath. They've run and they've climbed things and they've been in fights, and John's done it all without the cane. He never thinks about it in the moment, too high on adrenaline to think about anything but _getting away_ or _catching the bad guys_. When he gets home and sees the cane he thinks about it, and he's starting to get tired of it. He's starting to get _over_ it. It is no longer novel to be able to walk without limping.

He finally cracks on a Sunday afternoon. For once the cane isn't being used for anything unusual, but it's sitting prominently displayed on the kitchen table. John frowns, and turns away into the sitting room. "Why do you keep leaving my cane about?" he asks Sherlock, who is lying on his back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

Sherlock turns to him, arms crossed over his chest. "It's a convenient size," he says. "And you're not using it."

"No, I'm not." John stands in the doorway, clenching and unclenching his fist against his leg. "Look, Sherlock, I concede that it's thanks to you I don't need the cane any more. You needn't keep reminding me of it."

"You think too much."

"You've told me otherwise before."

"I told you, the cane is quite convenient. It's been very useful to me." Sherlock uncrosses and re-crosses his arms.

John snorts softly, and glances back at the cane. It's not serving any useful purpose sitting on the table, certainly.

"Sherlock, you don't need to remind me that you fixed me for me to like you."

Sherlock sits up suddenly, looking like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He settles, finally, for shoving them down the sides of the cushion. He looks speculatively at John’s elbow, and then stands up. Sherlock looms over John, all quirked lips and curly hair across his forehead. “I shot a man for you,” John says, “but I’ve never reminded you of it.” Sherlock recoils slightly, surprised. “And I know you like me. I don’t need to give you reasons.”

“How do you know?”

“You wouldn’t care whether I like you, otherwise.”

Sherlock steps forward. His hand lands low on John’s right hip, the leg that has no injury. His grip is surprisingly firm. “I’m not trying to remind you,” he says, almost into John’s hair.

“What are you trying to do?” John asks Sherlock’s collarbone.

Sherlock goes very quiet and still. He lets go of John’s hipbone and backs away slowly. There’s a long pause, until Sherlock says finally, “Nothing.”

John feels his throat close up. “Oh, uh, all right then. If you say so.” But he’s not sure.

The next time John comes home the cane is out of sight. A bit of nosing around in Sherlock’s absence tells John it’s on the floor in a corner, underneath a pile of books, papers, and Sherlock’s violin case. Carefully, John puts the pile back in place, leaving the cane buried. It doesn’t appear again. No more reminders.

Nonetheless, John can still feel the press of Sherlock’s fingers against his hip. He needs no reminder for that.


End file.
